


begin again

by thegoddamnhat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoddamnhat/pseuds/thegoddamnhat
Summary: 'As he started muttering about Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi, John came to a startling conclusion - he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to cuddle Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to wake up every morning next to Sherlock Holmes. A still more startling conclusion - he had loved him for a very long time. He'd just never had the courage to say it. The most startling conclusion? There was a possibility that Sherlock might just love him too.'John is afraid of thunderstorms. Luckily Sherlock is there for him. Cuddling and confessions of love ensue.(I'm sorry I'm not great at summaries)





	begin again

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this when I was caught in a storm. I get really paranoid during storms, so I thought of John possibly being scared and Sherlock comforting him. This is also my first fanfic, so I'd really appreciate it if you gave me your opinions on it!

It had been a rather uneventful day at Baker Street. John was alone at home with Rosie. Sherlock had gone to Sherrinford to visit Eurus with Mycroft and his parents. He'd taken his violin along. He and Eurus had a way of communicating through music perfectly. It was a language that transcended the need for speech, that could convey a million emotions through just a few notes. It was intricate, it was precious, it was beautiful. It was one of the few things Sherlock openly adored and loved. And while he himself would never be a musician, he appreciated it just the same.

Those quiet nights where they were both too introspective to talk, when they were lost in a spiral of dark thoughts heading downwards, were when Sherlock would play the violin. Some pieces John recognized, some he didn't. Some were Sherlock's own creation. They spoke of love, of loss, of bravery, and of hope. For a long time John had wondered whether he would have the courage to hope again. Hope for a good future. Sometimes it seemed impossible. But he had decided to try. And he found that he was much happier for it.

He was reading the newspaper, but his eyes were sliding in and out of focus. He was thinking. He was thinking about Mary. He was thinking about Rosie, who was sound asleep upstairs. He was thinking about Sherlock. Always about Sherlock. About him with his cheekbones and that coat, looking all mysterious. About him at a crime scene, excited and happy. About him holding him close, and telling him that while it was okay. And maybe it didn't seem okay. But it was it was.

He was thinking about Sherlock. About him, curled up in his chair after visiting Eurus, talking about the melodies they'd played together, his dark curls messy, his hands gesticulating wildly and his bright eyes alive with joy, full of fire. A fire he'd thought he'd never see again. Not after Mary. But he did see it. He saw it everyday. And would see it everyday in the future as well. Like Mary said, they were her Baker Street boys. They belonged together in this scruffy little flat. Their home.

A sudden rumble shook him out of his reverie. He glanced out of the window. The sky was growing dark. It was completely cloudy. Another rumble. He was fairly certain that they were about to have a thunderstorm. A sudden panic seized him. Was he afraid for Rosie? He didn't want her to cry. It was, he realized with a jolt, her first thunderstorm. At least her first thunderstorm in Baker Street.

He ran upstairs, and Rosie was still asleep, miraculously. Nevertheless, he scooped her up in his arms and pressed her to his chest. He gave her a quick kiss on her forehead and headed downstairs with her, rocking her back and forth in his arms. He heard another rumble of thunder and this time, there was lightning as well. He winced and pressed Rosie even closer. She snuggled up to him and mumbled something subconsciously. She wasn't going to wake up anytime soon.

He should have been relieved, but there was still a nagging terror in his heart. He'd been trying not to think about it, but the truth was that he was afraid of thunderstorms. It was so utterly stupid. He didn't understand why a wave of paranoia overcame him whenever he heard thunder, or saw a quick flash of lightning. He wondered whether it was something he'd always feared, or something new. He didn't know.

And having a child to take care of couldn't possibly make the situation any better. He just felt a crushing sense of responsibility. He had to stay strong for his daughter. He honestly felt that Rosie would probably do a better job of comforting than him.

The storm was getting more furious. The lights flickered and went out. Darkness engulfed his surroundings. He couldn't see a thing. He turned on the torch in his phone, gently put Rosie into her cradle, and frantically looked around for a lamp. If he had been scared before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

He found one after what seemed like ages and switched it on. A warm yellow light blinked into existence. He sent a text message to Sherlock, with shaking hands -

_Please come to Baker Street as soon as you can_

He clicked Enter. Within a few moments he received a response -

_Almost there_

_SH_

_Thank goodness_ , John thought. Sherlock was supposed to have returned earlier this evening but he must have been delayed because of the storm. John waited, shivering and shaking, with every flash of lightning, and within a few moments he could hear the key turn in the lock downstairs. He sat up straighter. The door swung open, and Sherlock must have placed his violin down gently, because he was there for some time. He then heard footsteps hurry up the stairs and Sherlock opened the door with a huge bang, causing Rosie to give a little moan. There he stood in the doorway, with his coat drenched and his hair still damp, his eyes alight with worry. 'Alright?', he said frantically, echoing words from years ago, 'John, are you alright? I got your message-'

John threw his arms around Sherlock and clung to him tightly. Sherlock tentatively hugged him back, and John just wanted to tell it was alright, he didn't have to fear anything. He just whispered, ' Hold on to me,' and Sherlock took that as encouragement and pressed him closer to his chest. 'I'm scared,' John whimpered, looking up at Sherlock. His eyes were so radiant. So beautiful.

'I'm scared of thunderstorms. So scared. And it's so dumb. I've been in a war. I've watched people die in front of me. And yet just a little rain makes me paranoid.' Sherlock lowered his eyes and stared at the floor. He knew what he was thinking about. 'No,' John said, ' Look at me, please.' Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes sad. 'It's okay,' John said, 'I know you still feel guilty. And while introducing yourself to me as a waiter wasn't the best thing-' Sherlock cringed. 'Definitely not the best thing,' he muttered. 'I'm glad you know how horrendous that was. But I forgive you. I'd forgive you for anything. I  _have_  forgiven you for everything.'

'You have.' he said in a low voice, 'Thank you, John. I don't deserve your forgiveness, not after the mess I've made.'

'It's okay' John said. 'It's all okay.' He moved closer to Sherlock (if that was even possible), and they dropped down on the floor together, clutching each other tightly. Sherlock shrugged off his coat, and John wiped his hair dry.

'Thank  _you_ , thank you for coming for me,' John said, softly. 'I was already on my way,' Sherlock replied, even more quietly. 'It was nothing.'

'Well then,' John said, 'Thank you for coming back.'

'I'm always going to come back to you, John. To you and Rosie. This is our home. We belong here.' Sherlock said, in a gentle voice.

John smiled at him. 'Thank you anyway. Thank you for  _existing_.'

Sherlock smiled back at him, and John felt warmth bubbling in his chest. 'You too,' he murmured. 'Thank you so much.'

'I missed you,' John said, burrowing deeper into Sherlock's chest. 'I missed you every minute you weren't here. I know Rosie did too.'

For a moment, Sherlock didn't say anything, and John wondered whether he had breached the boundaries of totally platonic friendship. But he must have imagined it, because Sherlock said, 'Me too. I missed you a lot,' tugging John closer.

Sherlock was so warm, so warm, and his violinist's fingers were pulling John in. There was a soft tone in his voice John hadn't heard many times before. It was laced with affection, with longing, with love.

As he started muttering about Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi, John came to a startling conclusion - he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to cuddle Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to wake up every morning next to Sherlock Holmes. A still more startling conclusion - he had loved him for a very long time. He'd just never had the courage to say it. The most startling conclusion? There was a possibility that Sherlock might just love him too.

'Sherlock,' he said, interrupting him rhapsodizing about Four Seasons. 'Do you mind if I-', he said, turning around in Sherlock's arms, so he could look at him. 'Do you mind if I... kiss you?'

Sherlock's eyes grew wide in shock and John was almost about to backtrack, but the shock changed to something else. His already bright eyes grew even brighter, and crinkles of happiness appeared around his eyes. 'Okay,' he said, smiling giddily, 'That's more than okay, that's amazing, that's perfect, that's-'

He never got to finish his sentence. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down. Sherlock put one arm around John's back and one in his grey-blond hair. Their lips met, and it was perfect. It was gentle and warm and soft and sweet and felt like home. Sherlock tasted like mint (no doubt his expensive toothpaste) and apples and something else, something that was so undoubtedly  _Sherlock_.

They kissed and kissed and kissed, and eventually they had to break apart for air. They grinned at each other, lips completely red from all the kissing. Sherlock's pale face was pink. He was blushing.

John couldn't even hear the thunder anymore. All that mattered was Sherlock, all he could see was Sherlock, all he could taste was Sherlock.

Just him and Sherlock. They were all that existed in that moment.

'Can I kiss you again? Because that was... rather extraordinary,' Sherlock said shyly, his cheeks still pink, looking like a little schoolboy. The day Sherlock sounded  _shy_ ; he'd never thought he'd see it.

'Oh, God, yes,' John breathed out, and kissed him again. He wondered how he'd lived without this. He just wanted to kiss Sherlock for all eternity and never let him go.

'I love you,' he murmured against Sherlock's lips, 'I love you so, so much. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it.'

'It's okay,' Sherlock whispered back, 'I love you too. I love you to the moon and back.'

And they sat there together, completely wrapped up in each other. From that day on, John no longer feared storms. Not that much, anyway. He had a beautiful memory to hold onto, and it had happened in a storm.

He had Sherlock, who he loved so much, and his, no,  _their_  daughter, Rosie. And Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. Mary. And so many other people who loved them. They were all with them.

There would be times when the ghosts of the past would haunt them. They would feel lost. Devastated. Broken.

But together, they would try to build newer, happier memories over the old, sad ones. They would rewrite their book of life. They would make it joyful. They would carry on. They would get through this. They would begin again.


End file.
